Miles of Stars
by inspirationassaulted
Summary: Captain John Watson and Colonel Sebastian Moran were discharged as a result injuries in the same ambush. As civilians back in London, they find strength in each other, and John meets Sebastian flatmate and boss, Jim Moriarty. The result is something no one expected.
1. Chapter 1

The sky was always massive and clear in Kandahar Province. Lying there with his back in the sand, John thought the stars stretched for miles. It was one of those perfect clear nights, when the world was nothing but black sky and black sand and twinkling stars, one of those nights when the world was calm and quiet and no one was shooting. Nothing but warm ground and cooling wind, alone in the eye of the storm.

"Hey, Johnny."

Well, almost alone.

Sebastian dropped down to the sand, stretching out next to John with a grunt. He folded his hands behind his head, nudging John with his elbow. The Captain grunted out something that might have been construed as a greeting to the Colonel, nudging back.

"Rough day, Doctor?"

"A day plus some. Eighteen hours of meatball surgery plus regular duty. Only just got off." John sighed. "Wouldn't trade it for all the rain in England."

Sebastian's laugh was rich and full.

"Neither would I, Johnny. Neither would I."

They were both quiet a moment, staring at the stars.

"My tour's up in a month," John said, reaching for a conversational tone and only just failing.

"Lucky bastard," Sebastian joked. "What'll you do when you get home?" John shrugged.

"Find some general practice work, maybe. Maybe a hospital job with the NHS." He paused a moment to let that sad, lifeless picture form. "Just keep going, keep hoping to be sent back, I suppose." Sebastian chuckled.

"I got another five months. Not sure what I'll do after. Not much out there for a sniper. Not what's on the up-and-up anyways."

Silence fell again, only the whistling wind and the quiet breathing of two brothers-in-arms.

"Do you ever think about it?" John asked hesitantly.

"What? Working?"

"Just going home," he explained. "I think about it sometimes. Getting off the plane at Heathrow, seeing all my family waiting for me. Mind, Harry'd have to stop drinking for a day." Sebastian snorted.

"No point in thinking about it for me. No one'll meet me, my family's gone." The words were heavy in the cool, light night of the air.

"I'll meet you at the gate, Bastian." It was a whispered promise beneath the stars, in that moment of calm. Words that might have been meaningless, a joke, a cheering phrase, never remembered otherwise, but in a warzone everything has too much meaning.

"Thanks, Johnny."

A week later, John followed Sebastian off the base. He was the unit's favorite medic. The officers laughed and joked, finding humor even in the overheated interior of the armored convoy.

Until the lead truck was blasted apart.

In the still moment immediately following the explosion, while the air was still shaking around them, John tensed. The smile disappeared from his face. Good-natured Johnny went away and Doctor Watson came out to play. Before the truck he was in could fully stop, John had his kit and was out the door.

"Watson!" Sebastian was barrelling toward him, crouched down. "Shit! You can't just go swanning off like that!"

But John was only focused on the twisted wreck in front of him, the limping enlisted man pulling the blood-soaked driver from the hulking, shattered form.

"Yes sir," he replied automatically, not stopping for a moment. He grabbed the driver, helping the sergeant he couldn't think well enough to recognize yet pull him onto open ground. Blood soaked into the sand and dust.

"Get Bill!" he ordered. He heard Sebastian yelling in the background, calling for Lieutenant Murray, as he stood straight and craned his neck, looking for evidence of any other survivors in the wreck.

The first bullet grazed his right leg, knocking him to his knees, and buried itself in the chest of the dying driver, rendering him no longer in need of John's services.

The second hit the back of Sebastian's left thigh, just off centre. The Colonel dropped like a stone.

"Bastian!" Ignoring the pain and weakness and blood loss in his own leg, John forced his way to his CO's side, Bill Murray crouched in front of him.

"Pressure, tourniquet, get him in the truck and let's move," he ordered, setting to work making sure the hot lead hadn't nicked the femoral artery.

The third bullet ripped through his left shoulder, back to front, then scraped the side of Sebastian's hand before it dug a hole in the dry ground.

He collapsed on top of the Colonel. The last thing he heard was Sebastian calling his name.

John woke slowly to a bright, fuzzy world, full of the sharp smell of disinfectant and the heaviness of painkillers and a throbbing ache that even morphine couldn't quite mask in his shoulder.

Hospital, then. After a moment, events came back to him. They'd been ambushed, he'd been shot (twice), he'd collapsed on top of Sebastian-

"Bastian?" he croaked out. The nurse he heard shuffling around turned to him, checking over his signs. "Colonel Moran? What happened to him?" His voice was rough with disuse. How long and he been out?

"I don't know, sir. I'll ask, if you'd like." Then she told him what had happened since he'd lost consciousness in the desert.

Captain John Watson was immediately put into a truck and returned to base, where he was stabilized just enough to be evac'ed out of Afghanistan and back to an RAMC hospital in Germany. A pair of metal plates now held his left scapula together, thirteen stitches did the same for the graze on his leg. Still out from the surgery, he'd been loaded onto a plane and set back to his home base in England to recover. He'd likely not be cleared to be a surgeon again, which would mean the end of his RAMC career.

Colonel Sebastian Moran had been taken back to the base in Kandahar in the same truck. He'd been patched up in the same hospital in Germany and remained there to convalesce. He would probably limp for the rest of his life, but that wasn't for certain. Physiotherapy and a physical evaluation would determine whether he would remain in the Army or be discharged along with John.

John cursed his damned leg and the stares it got him, a still-young man with a cane. Medically, he knew his leg was healed. It shouldn't hurt. There was no lasting damage, only a scarred depression in the side of his thigh, but it still hurt. Damned psychosomatic pain, damned therapist. His whole life had gone pear-shaped as soon as that Afghani bullet had ripped through his shoulder. He should have been on base, he should have been the one to dig the twisted lead out of Sebastian's leg, repair veins and nerves and muscle with a master's touch.

Not meeting him at the gate in England.

John kept his eyes fixed on the board announcing flight 368's arrival from Frankfurt a.M., Germany. He stood out among families awaiting the return of travelling members and drivers meeting business people. Usually the men in fatigues were getting off the plane, not meeting it, but he hadn't been sure Sebastian would recognize him in his civilian uniform of jeans and wool jumpers.

Especially with the cane.

Even stooped and walking with the aid of a cane of his own, Sebastian Moran towered over business men in sharp suits and casually dressed tourists. When he spotted his waiting friend, John lifted his cane in a salute of commiseration.

"Johnny," he greeted, swinging his rucksack down off his shoulder. "What're you doing here?"

"I said I'd meet you, Bastian. And good thing, too! Got any money for a cab?" Sebastian's good-natured grimace answered that question.

They were quiet for a moment, looking at each other. For a mere minute, they could forget they were in the middle of Heathrow's International Terminal, forget the canes they both held, forget the discharge papers in Moran's back pocket and on Watson's desk in his bedsit, forget the fact that they were essentially starting their adult lives over again.

Then Sebastian shifted to lean on his crutch and the world came rushing back in. John looked down, tapping his own cane against the ground distractedly.

"Well, we'd better get goi-" John's words were cut off as the large Colonel wrapped him in a tight hug. He stiffened a second, then relaxed, winding his arms around his friend. They stayed that way for a few beats, just enough for people to begin to point at them and smile, and neither one said anything when they let go.

"Yeah, let's go."

Life in a bedsit differed only slightly from life as an officer on a Forward Operating Base. Blank, beige rooms, small beds that Moran and Watson still made up like they were going to be inspected in basic training, food that met caloric and nutrition requirements but didn't do much for the palate. It was quieter in England, though. No mortar rounds in the night, no sudden calls for surgeons to the base hospital. No young enlisted men tromping through the corridors talking loudly, excitedly, drunkenly.

It rained outside John's window. It hadn't rained once in Kandahar while he'd been there, not during the dry season. He missed the sun, the clear air, the miles upon miles of night sky with millions upon millions of stars.

The constant rain and mist wore down on two men who found themselves alive in the heat of the desert. They spent a week together, living down the hall from one another, getting to know England again. They went for curries and had cups of tea and talked about their lives before the Army. They went to pub in the evenings sometimes, where Sebastian drank two pints to John every one, and talked about life in the Army, the alcohol an aid to speaking about the life now closed to them both.

Sebastian gave John his old sidearm one night. He didn't ask what John would do with it. John didn't ask why the Colonel had brought it with him.

"Johnny."

The call was quiet, but John was awake in an instant. He'd slept lightly (when he slept at all) since returning from Afghanistan, still always waiting for a call to the hospital. He rolled out of bed to open the door, glances at his watch as he grabbed his cane.

Half two in the morning.

"Bastian?"

Moran was leaning against the doorframe, dead on his feet with exhaustion but with the haunted look in his eyes that bespoke nightmares. Just like John.

No words were needed to explain. John just stepped aside, hobbling to the little gallery kitchen to make tea. The drowned their nightmares in steam and splashes of milk, silently mourning the end of the nights they spend laying on the sand and watching the stars shine through the miles of dark night sky.

It was halfway through their mugs when Sebastian spoke again.

"I got a job offer." John grunted into his mug, raising an eyebrow. "It's…shady."

The second eyebrow joined the first, reaching for John's still-short hair.

"'Personal security.' Bodyguard, really." John looked pointedly at Sebastian's left leg. "That's the official story, anyway. The guy…he's some kind of crime lord, and he wants a sniper. A good one."

Silence fell heavy on the tiny beige kitchen, the way it can only fall in the early hours of the morning, before the sky is even hinting at grey.

Then John nodded.

"Do what you love, yeah?" He quirked a half-smile at the larger man. "Money any good?"

"Money's fantastic." A long drink of tea, swirling the dregs around in the cup before downing them too. "Wants me to live with him, too. Always on call."

"Live-in PA?" John smirked. Sebastian shook his head ruefully, grinning.

"Something like that."

Sebastian left when the sun came up. He'd always had an easier time sleeping in the daylight. John was jealous, and of more than his ability to sleep. Sebastian was moving on, moving up, moving out. He stopped at the door.

"Visit me, Johnny."

John wouldn't see him again for three months.

John had woken from maybe half an hour of sleep with another nightmare of blood and bullets and sand. This time it was Moran he hadn't saved. Sherlock was in a mood, plucking shrill, pointed notes on his violin and John's leg was aching. He was bone tired, not having slept much at all through the case with the bank and the Chinese crime ring.

"I'm going out for some air." Sherlock just picked another painful-noise-masquerading-as-a-musical-note. "Right."

John's unease carried him out the door, into a cab, and all the way across London to Sebastian's flat. The stars were hidden behind the constant English cloud cover that night, and it unsettled John even more.

His heart was racing when he reached Sebastian's door, his breathing fast as he banged on the solid wood. He heard someone swear and knock something over behind it.

"Bastian?" he called hesitantly. Moran swung the door open, shirtless and bleary-eyed, handgun held by his side in a loose grip.

"Johnny?"

"Dream. Our last ride out."

They could almost speak without words now. Sebastian scratched the back of his head with his gun and sighed, but he stepped aside to let John through anyway. He knew what John needed. He needed to come back to the real world, out of the hazy, bloody realm of his dreams. He needed the hot steam rising off a cup of strong, Army-grade coffee. He needed to sit with the man he watched die, to be reassured by his casual conversation and half-smiles and his large, warm presence in the tiny kitchen.

Sometimes Sebastian needed it too.

And so it was they ended up in opposite chairs in the living room, talking quietly and sipping coffee strong enough to make the spoon stand straight up. John told his friend about living with a man who called him an idiot as a term of endearment and told him he constantly missed the important things.

He didn't miss the way Sebastian stiffened suddenly.

"Bastian?" The Colonel sat with military straightness, features blank where there had been a crooked smile before, tightness around his eyes betraying his anxiety at what was about to happen.

"Moran? Who's 'ere?"

Standing in the darkened bedroom doorway behind John was a slight, sleep-mussed, dark-haired man with an adorable Irish accent. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other busy holding onto a gun.

John was sensing a theme.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he apologized automatically. "I forgot Sebastian didn't live alone. God, it's a terrible hour and I've woken you, I'll go and let you both go back-"

"Johnny," Sebastian interrupted his rambling.

"It's alright," the small Irishman said. "I don't sleep regular hours anyway. I'm Jim." He didn't let go of the gun.

"John Watson," he gave his most charming smile, the one that made women (and men) on three continents fall over themselves. "I was stationed with Bastian on our last two tours in Afghanistan."

"Were you really?" Jim's smile was even more crooked than Sebastian's, and more endearing, but his gaze was as sharp as Sherlock's. John was suddenly reminded that Sebastian had said Jim was a criminal mastermind. "I'd love to hear about it sometime, but right now I think I'm for bed again. 'Night, Moran."

"Boss." Sebastian gave a sharp nod, still stiff as a board. He didn't relax until Jim shut the door. "Sorry about that, Johnny. That was the guy I told you about last time we talked, the Boss." John hummed, swirling his coffee.

"He doesn't look it. Most people wouldn't remember him if they passed on the street." Then John thought about the small frame, dark hair and eyes, that adorable accent. "Well, I might, but I'm not most people." The silence stretched as they spoke without words, asked and answered questions.

"Gay?" John eventually asked.

"Very."

"You've met someone."

"Yes, good morning to you too, Sherlock," John said absently, putting away the shopping he'd picked up on his way back from Sebastian's.

"A man."

"Yup. Bastian's flatmate," John answered.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Is this going to precipitate some tedious crisis of your sexuality?"

John grinned. "Nope. Not my fault everyone assumes 'I'm not gay' means I don't like men ever. I just don't like labels." John shrugged. Sherlock seemed reassured that he wouldn't have to deal with anything dull and sentimental.

John didn't recognize the number that popped up on his phone, but he shrugged and answered it anyway. Things were quiet at the surgery, it was near closing time, and chances were high it was just Mycroft.

"Hullo?"

"Hey, Johnny." Not Mycroft, then.

"Hey, Bastian. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm bored as hell, Jim's in a mood, and I don't like the way he keeps eyeing my rifle. What do you say we all go out for a drink? My treat."

John thought about the long day he'd spent at work, about the achy tiredness that had seeped into his bones after too many nights of too little sleep, about how bored Sherlock was and how likely the flat was to suffer from it.

"Sure."

"Great! We'll meet you at the pub just down on the corner after you get off, yeah?"

For a second, John wondered how he knew where the surgery was and what time it closed. Then he smiled to himself, remembering what Sebastian did for a living now and just who his employer was.

"Perfect."

The pub was bustling, but not crowded. John got off work rather late, after the usual pint-after-work crowd was gone. The air was full of warmth and the hum of happy talk, helped along by good beer.

The two men met him at the door, Jim's smile just as endearingly crooked as John remembered. Sebastian still looked like a soldier, standing straight and tall and constantly surveying the area. He'd traded tan shirts tucked into fatigues for a grey shirt tucked into dark jeans, but his ID circles still lay proudly on his chest. Only John's trained eye picked out the lingering hitch in his step when he walked.

They found a table in the back corner and loaded it down with three pints and a pile of chips.

"I think you've saved London from Jim's boredom today," Sebastian said. John chuckled.

"No need to thank me, you saved me from my own flat mate's boredom. I swear, the man's only three years old inside. I can't leave my gun anywhere, he'll find it, and last time he was bored he shot holes in the living room wall." John could only shake his head at the memory of Sherlock's antics. "I'll probably go back to find he's stolen some more body parts from the morgue to keep in the fridge. Again."

"Seriously?" Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

"No kidding. They're nutters, him and his brother both. The brother thinks he's a James Bond villain." John paused. "By the way, do you know anybody who's good with technology and not connected to the government in any way?"

"Why would you need someone like that?" Jim looked curious, but John could see a hint of his suspicion, too.

"He's probably bugged my phone. I like Bastian, and I'd rather not see him come down just because he has the misfortune of knowing me. Make him catch you for a mistake you made, instead." Jim and Sebastian both frowned at him blasé attitude to their careers, but John just shrugged and took a drink.

"I can do it for you now, if you want," Jim offered.

"Really? Thanks, that'd be great." John handed over his phone with another of his most charming smiles. Gorgeous, dangerous, _and_ intelligent? He was liking Jim more and more.

"I noticed you don't really work regular hours at the surgery, John," Jim said as he looked over the phone.

"And I'm flattered that you were interested enough to stalk me," John replied without missing a beat, bringing a smile to Jim's face that he quickly hid. Sebastian just laughed. "It's just locum work anyway. It's hard to work regular hours when you live with the world's only consulting detective, who happens to be a madman who drags me off to solve murders at all hours." John chuckled and took another drink. "Everyone seems to think we're a couple, too, despite the fact that no one has ever seen Sherlock have any romantic interest in anyone, ever. He shut me down on the day we met, before I could even start, really."

"Sherlock?"

"If you've watched me enough to know what kind of hours I work, I'm going to find it very hard to believe you don't already know who I live with," John raised an eyebrow at a slightly abashed looking Jim. Sebastian had to set his glass down, he was laughing so hard. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes: genius, self-proclaimed sociopath, and world's biggest brooding toddler. I swear, he throws temper tantrums." Another drink. He'd nearly finished his pint. "So what have you two been up to that you can share in public to one of the uninitiated?"

Jim and Sebastian gave him identical looks of surprise and speculation at his insight. John only smirked.

"Well," Sebastian began with a glance at Jim, "I had to deal with the clean-up from a client who was shot in the heart by an expert marksman with an unregistered handgun."

"He wasn't long for this world anyway," Jim interjected, back to fiddling with John's phone. "Brain aneurism."

John stared at them both in shock, head swivelling back and forth. Then he burst out laughing.

"That was you! You were Hope's sponsor and Sherlock's fan." He shook his head in amazement, still chuckling. "That was good, very clever."

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do. Killer cabbie? Completely unexpected. And the fact that you found someone who could play the game with Sherlock, someone who everyone else overlooked. Brilliant, all of it."

The look in Jim's eyes was so familiar. John realized it was the same look Sherlock had had, the first time John had told him he was amazing. It was a sort of tentative pride and wary joy, as though he was about to shout 'April Fool's!' and call him a freak instead.

"Yeah, really amazing. Sorry if I made a mess for you, shooting him and all."

"Nah, don't worry about it," Sebastian dismissed. "He was going to die soon anyway, since both those pills were bad." Jim glared at him, and John thought privately that it was because Bastian had given away what had been a really good plan. "Anyway, I got to see all that time I spent training you put to use!"

"Are you kidding?" John laughed, and Jim switched his odd, intensely curious gaze to him. "I was a damn good shot without your help!"

"You know, that always seemed odd to me," Sebastian wondered. "How did a surgeon end up with a marksman's aim?"

"Or was it a sharpshooter who ended up as a surgeon?" Jim added. John just gave them his favourite enigmatic grin, the one that made even Sherlock unsure.

"Steady hands," was all he said before getting up to fetch more drinks from the bar. When he returned, Jim passed him his phone.

"It's clean now," he said quietly. "Mycroft's usually one step behind me, technology wise." John didn't question any part of his statement, just nodded his thanks. "I also put in our numbers," Jim added hesitantly. "Moran is under Steve Morstan, which is one of the aliases he uses now. I'm in as James Reginold, and the number goes to my private phone." He pinked faintly. John wasn't stupid, he knew that showed how much trust Jim had in him, and the way Sebastian sputtered into his beer and excused himself for the loo only confirmed it.

He reached out and squeezed Jim's wrist, running his thumb softly against the back of the Irishman's hand. He could feel the pulse quicken under the pad of his middle finger.

"Thanks, Jim," he said, giving his trademarked Heartbreaker smile. "I suppose that means you be hearing from me again about going for drinks. Or maybe dinner?" He leaned a little closer, enjoying the way Jim bit at his lip slightly. "And maybe we could go without Bastian next time?"

"I'd like that," Jim answered softly, just as Sebastian returned. John removed his hand and leaned back, since the look on Bastian's face clearly said he was thinking about turning around and leaving again.

"Well, must be off," John said with a grin as he stood. He watched in fascination as Jim collected himself and a calm, confident mask slid across his features. He was better than Sherlock, as good as Mycroft. "Sherlock's probably gone through all my bullets by now and is back to being bored. Should probably make sure he isn't going to blow up the flat accidentally. Or on purpose," he mused, frowning. Jim laughed.

"Don't worry about the tab, Johnny," Sebastian said, and John saluted him mockingly. "See you around?"

"Yeah," John replied, looking at Jim. "Definitely."

John was all but humming to himself as he made a lasagne for dinner, determined to make Sherlock eat at least half a normal portion. He'd had coffee with Jim that morning, before going on to an afternoon shift at the surgery, and he felt like walking on air.

It was so easy to forget Jim was a criminal mastermind sometimes. Granted, John had not actually seen him at work, so to speak, but he just seemed like a normal bloke, if genius and always slightly fidgety, running over with manic energy. Though living with Sherlock made Jim look ordinary by comparison.

Just sometimes, John would catch him surveying exits and studying nearby people with an intense, x-ray scan kind of gaze, the way he had always seen SAS guys in Afghanistan do. It was threat assessment, one of the markers of Jim's deeply ingrained paranoia. Jim always sat with his back to the wall in sheltered corners and alcoves, but with a clear view of the main part of the room and as many exits as possible.

Not to mention the first time John had met him, when he came out of his bedroom with gun in hand.

But their conversation flowed easily and stuck to fairly normal, if sometimes morbid, topics. Jim liked to hear about Sherlock's experiments and the bodies John examined in the morgue at St. Bart's. John listened raptly to stories about years-old murders in and around London. The stories were always carefully edited and censored, but John always knew in the back of his mind that Jim was the one responsible, though the man was quick to tell him what the victim had done to deserve such a fate. Besides, Jim was only the organiser. Someone else always did the actual deed, and they could have backed out in the end, right?

"I take it your date went well?" Sherlock said with a faint sneer, cutting across John's thoughts. He grinned.

"Yep," he chirped, popping the lasagne in the oven. "We're having a little get-together here for my birthday next week," he informed the detective, who was beginning to show clears signs of a pout at the news. "Just dinner and drinks with a few people."

"Tedious," he declared, flopping gracelessly into his chair.

"Too bad," John replied. "It's the first birthday I'll spend on English soil in five years, and people are going to celebrate with me, yeah? I don't care if you spend the whole night sulking, either, since everyone already knows you. Or at least, about you."

"Your boyfriend is coming, too, then." Now Sherlock was definitely sneering. John wondered what his problem was.

"Of course he's coming. So is Bastian, and so are Greg and Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mycroft can come too if he wants, and that woman of his that's always on her phone. You two can sit in a corner and snip at each other the whole time, for all I care. Though it might be interesting to get Mycroft drunk…" he trailed off, thinking.

Sherlock snorted.

As is turned out, John was spared the stressful, if likely to be entertaining, meeting of Jim and Sherlock, as well as the politely worded horror that would be introducing his boyfriend to Mycroft. Sebastian was the first to arrive, his heavy tread on the stairs a surprise to John, who knew the sniper to be silent on his feet usually. He shook the odd detail away, thinking it was probably to keep Sherlock from noticing anything off.

"Happy Birthday, Johnny," the large man rumbled, clapping John in a one-armed, manly sort of hug. "Something came up with work, so Jim can't come, but he'll probably want to take you out tomorrow." John smiled ruefully, knowing Jim worked even odder hours than he did. The man was almost as single-minded as Sherlock on a case.

"Probably better that way. Him in a room with Sherlock and Mycroft would only end in tears."

"Who's crying?" Sebastian asked with a grin.

"Humanity," John chuckled, motioning his friend to a chair at the table and fetching a couple cold beers from the fridge. Sebastian dropped a box on the small bit of surface not covered by Sherlock's glassware.

"What's that?"

"Open it and see," the sniper replied, laughing as John eagerly ripped through the paper. "Actually, I don't know either. Jim got them all and just handed it to me. Apparently it goes along with his."

John lifted out the tooled leather and laid it on the table for Sebastian to drool over too.

"Oh, that is sweet," the bigger man muttered. He ran his fingers along the stitching.

"This might be the nicest one I've ever seen," John murmured, lovingly touching the high-quality, custom made concealed carry shoulder holster. "Christ, Jim didn't get me a new gun, did he?" Sebastian just laughed, drinking his beer.

Mycroft and the phone assistant never did show up, though John did receive a lovely and expensive bottle of single malt whiskey that he was quite looking forward to sharing with Jim and Sebastian sometime. He tucked the holster away in his room before Greg showed up. Sherlock sat awkwardly in the corner, choosing to just shut up over risking John's wrath by being insensitive or rude.

"How's life, John?" Greg asked, somehow managing to pull himself away from Molly. John grinned.

"It's going alright. It's still new, you know?" He glanced out the window at the drizzling rain. "First birthday in England in five years. Rain sounds caused by actual rain, not bullets or artillery. I'm still getting used to it." He could feel Sebastian coming up behind him, his gait just on the wrong side of even. The Colonel placed a hand on his good shoulder. John grinned, watching Greg watch Sebastian. "Of course, the boyfriend helps."

"Boyfriend?" Greg just barely managed to keep from stuttering, eyes flicking from John to Sebastian and back.

"Oh, not him," John said carelessly. "Sebastian's my oldest friend and my former CO, but not my boyfriend. He's not even- actually," he turned to Sebastian, "what is your sexuality, anyway?"

Sebastian screwed up his face in thought, then shrugged. "Probably something along the lines of Can't-Be-Arsed-sexual." John snorted, and even Greg grinned.

"See? Nah, not Bastian. His flatmate, actually. Gorgeous little Irishman obsessed with computers named Jim."

Greg flushed a little, but he still smiled. "Well, whatever makes you happy, mate. I can't say the Yard'll expect that."

John shared a glance with Sebastian. "What do you mean by that?"

"Er, well," Greg shifted his glass awkwardly in his hands. "Most of them figured, if you dated a bloke…well, it would be Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" John coughed. A quick glance across the room showed Sherlock was watching them closely. "Wow. He's a looker, don't get me wrong, the man's bloody beautiful, but he's just…not what gets me, you know? Too much perfect for an old soldier like me. Too cerebral, too harsh. I've been with Jim for almost two months and he's not once called me an idiot."

John looked down at his phone in his hand on his walk. Incoming Call, Steve Morstan. He grinned.

"What's up, Steve?" he answered.

"Get over him and deal with him," Sebastian gritted out. John could hear glass shatter in the background.

"Bored or angry?" He immediately started looking for a cab, shifting absently into his RAMC ways of speaking with as few words as possible.

"Bored first. Now furious," Sebastian replied, just as a cab slid to a stop in front of John.

John barked out Jim's address before going back to his phone. "Orwell?" he asked, slipping into their code.

"Fucking Eric Arthur Blair," Sebastian gritted. "ETA?"

"Twenty." John tried to avoid bouncing his leg in impatience. "Armed?"

"Only with kitchenware," Sebastian sighed. "ASAP, Watson."

"Yes, sir," John snapped, barely refraining himself from adding 'over' as he ended the call.

As he drew near Jim's flat, he could hear yelling and the sound of a plate impacting the wall. The door was locked, so John rotated and hit it with his good shoulder, smashing the lock open as he reached across to his left armpit to draw his gun from his shoulder holster, the weapon a gift from Jim.

Gun held loosely, he came into the kitchen just in time to duck as a mug came flying toward him. He brought his arm up on instinct and zeroed his arm on Jim, bringing up his left hand to support. Jim froze, saucer stilling in his hands as his eyes went wide and dark.

"Fucking hell, Watson," Sebastian grunted.

"About done there, Jim?" John said pleasantly, gun never wavering.

Jim put the saucer down on the table, raising his hands. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" he smirked.

John let the gun fall, taking the safety off as he holstered it again and tugged his jumper back into place over it. He smiled and stepped forward to grab Jim by the front of his shirt and tug him in for a harsh kiss. "I'm always pleased to see you, but you know I never go anywhere without a gun." Jim grinned ferally and nipped at his lip.

"Oi, c'mon," Sebastian called. "Can't you do that in your room?"

"Mm, can we John?" Jim hummed.

John trailed soft kisses up from Jim's shoulder to his ear and whispered, "Nope." Jim pulled away and glared at him. "No, Jim, you're bored. Sex is not what you need right now. A puzzle is, and I have the perfect puzzle for you."

He dragged a confused Jim into the living room and shoved him onto the couch before stripping off his shirt and trousers.

"Sixty seconds with my bullet wounds, and then you tell me what happened," he grinned.

Jim laughed and clapped his hands once, jumping up to circle John and stare closely at his scars. John kept time on his watch. Sebastian just stared.

"Time," John said. "Tell me what you got."

Jim's eyes glittered with excitement. "There were mountains behind you."

"It was Kandahar," Sebastian pointed out. "There were mountains fucking everywhere."

"The first one hit your leg. It happened while you were standing. The hit to the shoulder would have dropped you, thrown you forward. It's too easy, John!" He groaned and threw himself back on the couch.

John shared a look with Sebastian, getting a tiny nod in return. "Alright, tell me what happened to each bullet. Where did it end up? What did it hit? Recreate the scene."

Jim jumped back up. He moved John to stand straight up. "Right! First bullet comes in," he whistled like a falling bomb in a cartoon, "but the angle's all wrong, so it only grazes the side of your leg. You fall to your knees." He pushed John down into a kneeling position, shoulders slightly bent. "Then, second shot," he smacked a hand on John's scar with a sharp sound, "hits your shoulder, takes you out of action. Both ended up buried in dirt, going by the downward angle of the trajectory as they passed you." He crouched down to meet John's eyes. "Did I get it all?"

"Good," John praised, then smirked, "you got the very basics right. The details…well, can't fault you for lack of information." Jim's face fell, but his eyes were still glittering with the challenge. John waved Sebastian over. "You know Bastian and I were shot at the same time, right? Same attack. Now add in Bastian's scars and tell me what happened." He stood and pushed the coffee table out of the way with one leg, making room for their re-enactment. "Trousers off, Bastian."

"Oi, I'm getting there!"

"And just a hint, Jim," John added, ignoring Jim's glare, "there were three bullets." Jim's eyebrows jumped up his forehead and he threw himself into observation.

"Time," John said a minute later. "Jim, go."

Jim went through another really close story, but John just grinned and shook his head when he was done. "Bastian?"

"Go for it."

John put Jim back on the couch. "Watch. Three bullets, three casualties. Where are we?"

"Off base," Jim answered, frowning.

"All of Afghanistan is 'off base,' be more specific."

"You're in a convoy, going through a valley. There are snipers on the hill, waiting for you. Waiting for the convoy to stop."

"Good, but the snipers aren't important right now."

"Awful snipers anyway. Amateurs," Sebastian added.

John grinned. "In less than two minutes, there are going to be three casualties in one spot. What happens first?"

"The convoy stops."

"No, that's the result. What's going to happen?" John stressed.

Jim's eyebrows scrunched up adorably. "Something stops the convoy." His face cleared with realisation. "An explosion! The lead truck hits an IED."

"Right," John nodded. "Lead truck ends up a pile of shrapnel. Now the convoy has stopped. Bastian and I are in truck three. What's happening now?"

"You're running toward the lead truck, dead set on saving someone," Jim smirked.

"Got any evidence for that?"

"Just how much I know about you," Jim replied cheekily. "So you're running for the lead truck. There's a survivor and you're dragging him out, that's where the third casualty comes in." John nodded, standing so Jim could position him like a dummy. "Now the first bullet hits, grazes your leg, but the angle's weird, you aren't standing straight."

"Right." Leaving his legs straight, John bent from the waist, frozen in the act of reaching for his patient. "Now the bullet hits. Where does it go?"

"Into the survivor," Jim realises, standing to trace the scar on the outside of John's knee. "He dies. First casualty." He turns to Sebastian, but his eyes are glazed in a way that John knows means he's seeing the scene in his mind: cover fire, sandy dust soaked with blood, ragged mountains in the background. "Here comes Moran-"

"Shouting and swearing about my medic captain not going off alone," Bastian interjected.

"-and he turns his back to the hillside for just long enough. Second bullet, buried in his leg, and he falls forward." Bastian grinned and flopped down on the floor, stretched out on his stomach like he had been when he was shot. "But he's here, and you," he frowned at John. "You get up and move."

"I haul myself up," John did so, "and kneel here, putting pressure on the wound." He pressed lightly on the back of Sebastian's leg.

"Hit. Bullet number three, in here," he touched the entry scar, "out here, the angle changes. Is this positioning exact?"

"Oh yes," John said. "It's not exactly something you forget." Sebastian shuddered faintly under his hand.

"So it lands…" Jim's eyes followed the path of the imaginary bullet, tracing the scar near Sebastian's wrist, "in the ground by Moran's hand."

"Scared the fuck out of me," Sebastian said quietly. "The most frightening thing I saw in that whole damned war was my best friend bleeding out across my back."

"I was so mad that I wasn't your surgeon," John admitted, squeezing the arm nearest him. He stood and gathered up his clothes. "Jim," he smiled slowly, "now we can go to your room."

"Do you miss the war?" Jim asked softly in the dark room.

John shifted beside him, rubbing a hand along his spine. "Sometimes. Not the excitement or danger, I get enough of that from you and Sherlock." He paused, thinking. "You make friends easily in a warzone. You have to trust the people around you with your life, just like they trust you, for every second of every day and especially if they're in your chain of command. You have to be friends."

"It's that easy?" Jim asked curiously.

"You make it that easy. Don't talk about politics, don't talk about gays, don't give your opinions on the war. A soldier's job is to point and shoot and never to think beyond the permitted subjects. So we play games and drink, and we laugh in the face of death. Gallows humour is an entry requirement for any branch of the military. Everyone becomes friends out there, but you can't get too attached either, because you could all die tomorrow. Real friends are rare out there."

"Like you and Moran?"

John quirked a smile that couldn't be seen in the dark room. "Yeah, like me and Bastian." He hesitated. "It was…hard for me to become a civilian again, especially without being a surgeon anymore. If I'd lost Bastian in the field that day…hm." He couldn't say it, but the way Jim's arms tightened told John that he knew.

"So what else do you miss?" Jim asked, moving the conversation away from the idea of John's suicide. John pressed a kiss under his ear in thanks.

"The stars," he whispered.

"Stars?" He could hear the little eyebrow pucker of confusion in Jim's voice.

"Yeah, the stars," John smiled. "On quiet nights, I could get away from the base. There was a flat bit of land beside a dry riverbed I would lay on and just stare up at the sky. There's no light out there at all, so you can see all the stars. Bits of light I had no idea existed, just miles of them. You can see without the moon out there." He pulled Jim close to him. "It was beautiful. It almost hurt to see the rain when I came back."

They were quiet for a long moment, enjoying the comfort and each other's quiet breathing.

"John Watson," Jim said softly, "you are the most enigmatic man I have ever met, and I think I love you."

"Not quite the same, is it?"

Sebastian's shadowy face loomed over John, blocking out the few stars he could see. John glared at him.

"Nothing is," he agreed.

"Aren't you cold?" Sebastian asked, crouching down beside him.

John shrugged. "No different than at Baker Street, since Jim blew out the damn windows." Sebastian grimaced and sat, stretching his legs out. "Am I allowed to know where he is?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Europe," was all he said. "He doesn't really understand why you're mad."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course he doesn't. He's too involved with his little feud rivalry whatever-the-hell-it-is with Sherlock, just like Sherlock can't be arsed to be a human being because Jim's being all 'delightfully interesting.'" He looked over at Bastian. "It's rough being the normal, ordinary counterpart to a genius."

"Trust me, Johnny, no one normal or ordinary points a loaded gun at their boyfriend just to make him stop throwing a fit," Sebastian said, grinning. "Or lets him recreate the time he got shot, or just accepts that he's a criminal mastermind. No ordinary man illegally carries two guns on a daily basis, just because one was a gift from his boyfriend, or shifts as easily as you do between happy civilian and Army surgeon, like the time I got my face busted. You definitely hold your own."

"Why Colonel Moran, are you flirting with me?" John teased, then his smiled turned genuine. "Thanks, Bastian. Really."

Sebastian grunted and stood, dusting off his jeans. "See you soon, Johnny."

John was shaking with repressed rage beneath his parka. He could feel the weight of each individual wire and pack of Semtex attached to the bomb vest. He figured Bastian had dressed him, since he could also still feel the weight of his Sig Sauer p226 in its holster on his hip, both gifts from Jim.

Jesus, Jim. Why?

An anonymous voice whispered through the earpiece. "Ready, Captain Watson. Just a few minutes." It wasn't even Jim telling him what to say.

He could hear Sherlock entering the pool, talking about the missile plans. Getting the go-ahead, John stepped out to stare flatly at his flatmate.

"Evening, Sherlock," he said tonelessly. He mindlessly repeated the voice's words while he tried not to scream in anger. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

His eyes followed the invisible path of the laser sight, knowing Bastian was at the other end. He blinked twice, quickly, while looking up at him, an old silent signal of theirs from Afghanistan.

_Got my back?_

The dot on his chest wavered, up and down like a nod.

_Yes._

Good. Sebastian would protect him over Jim, if it came down to it.

"John had my number," an Irish voice sing-songed from behind him. "I thought you might call." John turned to see Jim come through the far door, dressed in an impeccable dark suit. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Sure enough, Sherlock drew John's gun, his Army sidearm that he had just taken off to relax in the flat!

Suddenly, John just couldn't take it anymore. Praying that Semtex wasn't triggered by impact, John snapped out a hand and twisted Sherlock's wrist until he dropped the Browning. With his right hand, he drew his Sig out of his waistband. Next second, he was a human bomb, standing in front of two geniuses, with a loaded gun aimed at each. They had identical expressions of wide-eyed shock. He heard a whistle of approval from the upper level, all Sebastian.

"Thank you, Bastian," he called, never taking his eyes off the geniuses. "So I am so. God damn. _Done_ with all this. Sherlock, you're like a spoiled three-year-old who's never been told 'no' before. Jim, you're an arse. And the both of you are obsessed. Well, I hope you'll be very happy together." He kept the Browning pointed at Jim, tucking the Sig in his armpit to free up a hand, "Bastian, any triggers if I take this off?"

"It's not real, Johnny," the Colonel called from the upper level.

"Good, just making sure," John answered, already ripping open buttons. "Got a car nearby?"

"Yes sir, Captain Watson," another voice called, one that made John pause.

"Damn," he grinned. "Lieutenant Colson, it's good to hear your voice again." He went back to his buttons, ignoring the growing scowl on Jim and Sherlock's faces. "Still in one piece, I hope?"

"Yes sir, all thanks to you."

"Good, very good." He finally got the vest undone and shed it and the parka, one arm at a time. "Colonel Moran, Lieutenant Colson, I'm going to leave now. I'd appreciate it if no one shot at me, since I know all those boys up there are relying on your leadership, not Jim's. I would also be very grateful if someone could take me to a car outside. A signal when you're ready, please."

"Yes sir."

John nodded sharply. "Jim," he softened his voice, "I don't know why you thought this was necessary, but it isn't. I'm sorry that it came down to this, but you forced my hand. I'm leaving, don't try to find me." His gaze flicked to Sherlock. "Either of you. And that goes for Mycroft, too."

"Ready, sir," Colson called. John heard familiar, faintly uneven steps coming up the hallway behind him, and he trusted Bastian would watch his back if he turned around. All he had was one for thing to say.

"Sherlock, you aren't a freak," he said gently. "Don't think you have to be normal just because people are mean."

"John-" Sherlock's eyes looked suspiciously watery, but he just nodded sharply and look away. "I'll…I'll miss your food."

"Mrs Hudson will make sure you eat," he smiled sadly. He hardened his face as he turned to Jim. "Jim Moriarty, god damn it. I don't know if anything I say will ever make you understand what I feel like right now." Jim opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. "I thought I loved you too, Jim. Now," he shrugged, "I don't know what to think."

Sebastian put a hand on his shoulder, and he stepped back. "Goodbye Jim. Sherlock. Have fun."

Sebastian led him down the hallway and out to a nondescript car. "Where do you want to go?"

"Heathrow," he answered, sinking into his seat. "I've always wanted to go to Australia."

"I've heard you can see the stars really well in the Outback," Sebastian said quietly.

"Coming with me?"

"Course I am." He squeezed John's good shoulder. John leaned into it, tired beyond measure.

"Should we take up sheep farming?" John teased.

Sebastian laughed. "I was thinking game hunting and doctor-on-call."

John smiled. "Thanks, Bastian."


	2. Chapter 2

"Rick! Got a call!"

"Yes sir!"

John could hear Colson thumping around, probably trying to find his boots. The Lieutenant was hopeless about keeping try of his boots. John yanked on his, tying the laces tight. He tossed his pack over his shoulder just as Rick came dashing through the room. John sighed and followed.

"Where to and how fast?" Rick asked as he went through the quick start-up routine of his little bush plane, a Bushcaddy L-164. John threw himself in the co-pilot seat and snapped on the headphones.

"Village a hundred and fifty miles South Southwest. Acute appendicitis, so as fast as you can," he replied. The little plane roared to life and Rick skilfully picked them up into the sky.

John loved taking the plane. He was always entranced by the Australian Outback, the way it seemed like an alien planet. It was all red dirt and rocks, like the surface of Mars, dotted by occasion gum trees. It was dusty in mid-July, even in the depth of an Australian winter.

Of course, it was always hot in the Outback, especially to an Englishman. That never bothered the three of them, though. They might be English by birth, but they were all made for the open air and sunlight of a desert, whether it was in Australia or Afghanistan.

"Sebastian coming back tonight?" Rick's voice crackled over John's headset.

John shrugged. "Tonight or tomorrow. You know how he gets in those mountains."

Bastian took trips into the mountains, the nearby (relatively) Macdonnell Ranges a couple times a year. It was his way of getting the excitement they all lived on. He'd call when he got back to Alice Springs so John could go pick him it.

That was just life on the edge of the Simpson Desert. Most of the time, they ran a dusty roadhouse/petrol station and hostel near the highway. John was licensed to practice too, so he did house visits whenever a call came in over the shortwave radio. Sebastian amused himself by sleeping on the ground in the mountains, and Rick Colson got himself a bush plane. There were lots of old Army boots and sleeveless shirts, stained pale Martian red by the dust.

John hadn't had word of Jim or Sherlock in over a year now. Sometimes he wondered what they were up to, or if they had killed each other yet, but then he cracked open another can of Fosters and looked for kangaroo herds.

It was a hell of a lot easier than being a ranch hand. That was one hot, dusty, woolly summer.

Sherlock was so _bored!_ Even Moriarty was boring, now that his right-hand and his boyfriend were gone. Crimes were dull when Moriarty didn't organise them. Sherlock wondered if he was laying on his own couch listlessly, like Sherlock, or if he had found something to do. He couldn't be trying to find John. Mycroft knew where he was, so there was no way Moriarty didn't.

Australia, apparently. Three guys and a pub, living in dust and bad beer.

Jim had run out of plates again. That weedy man who was his new right hand, Simon or Simone or whatever his name was, sent him a new shipment every Monday. They usually ending up scattered in shards across the kitchen floor by Thursday.

Sometimes, when he lost himself into his mind, he went through them all at once, waiting for John to come around the corner and point a gun at him.

John never came. Sebastian didn't even shout strings of swear words across the flat.

Australia. What was so exciting about Australia?

"Johnny?"

John hummed, not bothering to raise his head from the patch of dirt he was laying on. He heard Sebastian take another drink of his beer, slightly awkward with the way he was leaning back on his own dirt patch.

"You ever think about going home?"

John remembered vaguely another conversation in another desert under another sky full of stars that had been similar. "Sometimes," he admitted. "It's the adrenaline I think about mostly. Running over rooftops and getting shot at."

"Yeah, not much of that here, huh?" Another slurp of beer. "You ever think about moving on? Not England, just somewhere else?"

"Jesus, Bastian, how many of those have you had? You sap," he chuckled. Rick snorted from a third patch of dirt.

"Enough," Sebastian chuckled. "But do you think about it?"

"Yeah," John sighed. "Yeah, I do. What about you, Colson? Miss the excitement?"

"Hell yeah," Rick replied. "You guys lived with lunatics back in England. I hadn't had any until I got roped in for that pool job by Bastian."

"And thank fuck I did," Sebastian added. "Got anywhere in mind?"

"A couple places," he answered. "How 'bout you, Johnny?"

"Yeah," John grinned, "I got a few."

Sherlock cut off mid-word when he saw who was standing in the doorway. Even Mycroft looked faintly surprised when he turned around.

"Hope you don't mind that I dropped by," Jim simpered. Mycroft frowned.

Sherlock snorted. "Shall I make tea? Mrs Hudson keeps me in stock."

The atmosphere was tense as they all sat in the living room of 221B, cups of tea in hand, but it was somehow heavy with shared sadness too.

"He's moved." Jim broke the silence.

"They have," Mycroft nodded. "The three of them seem particularly attached to each other."

"Of course they are," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "It's a chain of command. They might as well be back in the Army."

"They're friends," Jim argued. "Something John said one night. 'You make friends easily in a warzone.' They trust each other in a way that makes them closer than brothers." He looked pointedly at the Holmeses. "Especially closer than you two."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ah, the camaraderie of soldiers. Mycroft, where are they now?"

"You shouldn't know," Mycroft murmured.

"Tell me!" Sherlock and Jim shouted in tandem, barely sparing the time to glare at each other.

Mycroft shook his head obstinately. "John does not what you to find him. Either of you." He gave them both a measured look. "I am cutting my surveillance of John Watson. If he ever comes back, let it be of his own volition." He set his cup aside and stood. "Sherlock, I suggest you take more private cases if you are so bored. And Mr Moriarty," Jim looked up at him briefly with surprise, "if you wish to remain…fixated on Dr Watson, you would do well to honour his values. You might ask Sherlock about John opinions on…recreational habits."

Swinging the umbrella over his arm, he shut the door behind him with a snap.

"John made me swear never to use again," Sherlock said softly. "I'll never forget that conversation. That's what keeps me from going back to it now, as much as I want to slow down my mind." He looked at Jim, staring down at his hands. "Seven percent."

"I don't need to break things on it," Jim answered. "Four point five."

The neighbours always gave them funny looks when they walked past. John supposed it wasn't exactly expected for three single, middle-aged Englishmen to move into one a black, mining neighbourhood outside Johannesburg.

They came around to John pretty quickly, though. He picked up a job as the company doctor for the mines, though he did free house calls in Soweto when he was needed. Rick, ever useful with his pilot's license, worked at a nearby small airfield flying short cargo runs, while Sebastian did day labor kind of jobs as he found them.

It wasn't much money, but they all agreed that their rough little matchbox house was better than the canvas and sandbag walls on the Forward Operating Base.

The neighbourhood was rough enough that John carried a gun again, and he had definitely missed the solid weight of it on his hip.

Though he carefully avoided any reason for the police to pat him down.

"I can't say I ever expected to see you in the client chair," Sherlock commented, handing over a mug of tea.

Jim took it with a shrug. "And I can't say I ever expected to see you helping me through withdrawal. I definitely never saw myself sitting here." He cast a short, pained glance at the red armchair, undisturbed and gathering dust. "You can't let him go either."

"Even Mycroft doesn't sit there," Sherlock said softly. Their statements hung in the air for a moment, heavy with all the words they didn't say when they should have. "You've kept clean."

"And I intend to stay that way," Jim replied with conviction. He hesitated. "You were right. John would have hated it."

"But that's not all, is it?" Sherlock surveyed Jim closely. "You wouldn't be here if that was all. Where do I come in?"

"I have a case for you," Jim said, surprisingly without any arrogance or superiority in his voice. Sherlock gave him a 'go on' look. "I want you to take down my main drug cartel. I can't do it myself, or everyone else would turn on me and I'd end up dead in a gutter in six weeks. I give you free reign to rip it down however you want, so long as you only focus on the cartel."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his face carefully blank. "He won't hear about it, you know. He's not going to come running back into your arms as soon as I finish," he said softly, carefully.

"I KNOW THAT!" Jim screamed. His half full mug hit the wall, next to the yellow smiley face and bullet holes. Jim clenched his fists tightly, drawing in a hard breath through his nose as he tried to bring his temper under control. "I know that," he repeated more calmly. "That doesn't mean I won't do it. For him."

"For him," Sherlock echoed. "Where am I going?"

Jim stood, pulling his jacket on. "Johannesburg. I'd give you more information, but…" he gave the detective a shark-like grin, "where's the fun in that? Ciao, Sherlock. Do try not to get caught."

Sherlock shut the door behind him, mind already running away, planning what he would need for equipment and disguises.

But first, he needed to buy a ticket to Johannesburg.

He had just wrapped up another unsatisfying interview with a homeless man when he heard the singing. Normally he would have dismissed it. Drunken singing in the street late in the earliest hours of a Saturday morning? Idiots 'relaxing' after a work week. Dull.

Except these singers were British. Three white British men, from what he could see at the distance, hanging on each other as they staggered. Odd, in a very black neighbourhood near the mines. Especially since they displayed signs of being very comfortable and even accepted here.

"Sing the part!" one of them slurred. "Sing it!"

The shorter one on the right side laughed, almost giggled. "_Hurroo, hurroo_," he sang, off key.

The other two laughed uproariously, wavering and nearly falling before they calmed enough to pick up the song again. "We had guns and drums and drums and guns, the enemy never slew ya. Johnny, I hardly knew ya!" The tallest man, in the middle, slapped the reluctant singer on the back. "They never slew ya, Johnny! But I knew ya."

"Why do you always hafta sing that one, Bastian?" the short one grumbled.

"C'mon, Cap!" the third man, on the left side, called. "It's about you! Johnny!"

Sherlock's heart froze in his throat. The world could have ended around him, and he would not have taken his eyes from the short man on the right, giggling drunkenly.

_John_.

Did Jim know? Was this why he had sent Sherlock? So he would find John and tell him what Jim was doing, thereby sending him back into the man's arms?

His feet moved without his permission, drawing him nearer to the group with every step. What would he say? What would _John_ say? Or his protectors, Moran and Colson?

Apparently he was about to find out. "John," tore from his throat as he approached.

John spun around, holding onto Moran to keep his balance. He stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, blinking rapidly as the smile slid from his face. "Sherlock?" He took a careful step forward. "Am I really seeing you?"

"Yes," Sherlock choked out, "I'm really here."

He staggered as John launched himself forward. For an instant Sherlock expected to be hit across the face, but John wrapped his arms around his lean body with crushing strength.

"Oh god, Sherlock, I missed you," he nearly sobbed into Sherlock's shirt as the detective hugged him back just as tightly.

"You look…"

"Tan?" John asked, quirking a grin even though he had an arm thrown over his eyes. He heard Sherlock snort.

"No," he replied. "Happy."

"Well, rest assured I'm not very happy right now," John grumbled good-naturedly. He thrust his other hand out blindly. "Hand it over."

Sherlock's baritone laugh rumbled through the tiny room as he placed two paracetamol in John's hand, followed by a glass of water. "Perhaps you shouldn't drink so much."

"Bastian was buying, he got a bonus," John explained half-heartedly. He pulled his arm up to look at Sherlock, who seemed so pale and ethereal in his shabby matchbox house room. At least he hadn't worn his usual tailored suit. "I am happy," he said carefully, "but that doesn't mean I didn't miss you."

"I missed you too," Sherlock looked down at his hands. "We missed you. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft, in his own unctuous way."

John sighed and rolled out of bed, stretching his arms up over his hands. His skin looked like leather next to Sherlock's milky complexion, tanned as he was by months in the Australian sun and roughened by working around the mines. He'd lost any fat he might have gained in his furlough in England long ago, during that first Australian summer when they'd worked as itinerant ranch hands on the sheep farms in New South Wales.

He wanted to ask about Jim, but he wouldn't. Sherlock would have to make the decision to bring that up.

"Let's go wake up some hungover ex-Army guys," he said after he pulled a shirt on. "Then breakfast, because I'm starving."

"So what are you doing in Joburg, Holmes?" Sebastian asked through a mouthful of beans.

Sherlock spun his empty coffee cup in his hands. "I received a case," he said carefully. "From Jim Moriarty, actually."

John choked on his toast, coughing. "Go on, I'm listening," he wheezed.

"Moriarty is…trimming down his web." John frowned, hearing the evasion clearly in Sherlock's precise wording.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, a grin stretching across his face. "He wants you to take down the drug network," he said bluntly.

John laughed when Sherlock's eyes briefly went wide before he schooled his expression. "Forgot Bastian worked for him, didn't you?" Sherlock flushed. John laughed. "So why's he cutting off a cartel? That's big business around here. Around anywhere, actually."

"Yes, why would Jim get rid of his main source of money?" Sebastian asked seriously, looking at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "He wouldn't do it on his own, so he's doing it for John." John stared at him. "Why now? We've been gone for a year and a half." Sebastian's eyes went wide with realisation. "He got into his stock didn't he?"

"Sherlock?" John whispered. Sherlock looked away pointedly. "Sherlock, tell me."

"Jim's mind works much the same way as mine," Sherlock said evenly. "It appears that an intravenous cocaine solution has the same effect. I believe he said it helped him not need to break dishware." John buried his face in his hands. "John, no one blames you for-"

"Don't," John warned, throwing back his chair and heading for the door. "Just…don't."

The door rattled the little matchbox house as it slammed behind him.

"John! I confess, I am…_quite_ surprised to hear from you."

John scowled at his satellite phone. "Don't be like that, Mycroft. I know you've been watching me."

"I was. However, I ceased my surveillance of your activities shortly after your move to Johannesburg. Truthfully."

John frowned. "After you told Sherlock and Jim where to find me?"

There was a poignant hesitation on the other end of the line. "No." He could almost hear Mycroft's frown. "John, what is this about?"

"I was enjoying a nice walk home from the bar last night, pleasantly drunk, and can you guess who I ran into?" he nearly snarled. He didn't wait for Mycroft to answer. "Sherlock. Sodding. Holmes. Now, do you want to tell me that he managed to slip your all-seeing eye for long enough to fly to South Africa? That you never noticed where he was going and tried to stop him?"

There was a long sigh on Mycroft's end. "You may not believe me, but he did." John could imagine him rubbing a hand across his forehead. "He called in one of his 'favours' to keep it from my attention, I believe."

"So neither of them knew I was here?" John asked, just for clarification.

"Neither?" Oh, so Mycroft picked up on that? "He's working for Moriarty then. Nothing illegal, I hope."

"Jim hired him to take down the drug cartel," John said darkly.

"Ah." Mycroft sounded strained. "I had hoped you would never hear about that. John, please understand that it is not your fault-"

"Just tell me Sherlock didn't go back to that too," John said, cutting across Mycroft.

"Sherlock has remained clean," Mycroft promised.

"Good," John replied quickly, not allowing Mycroft any room to say anything about Jim. "It's been…nice talking to you, Mycroft."

"You as well, John." He sounded like he even meant it. "It has been…rather dull, without your presence here."

He rang off, turning just in time to see a very familiar silhouette pausing by the frosted glass window of his office door. "Come in, Sherlock," he called wearily, dropping heavily onto his rolling stool.

Sherlock pushed open the door hesitantly. "I…had not anticipated Moran's...insightfulness," he said quietly, standing awkwardly in the door. "Neither of us knew you would be here."

"I know," John sighed, "Mycroft said. Sit down," he gestured to the only other space in the little office, the examination table.

Sherlock sat. "He doesn't blame you at all." John opened his mouth, but Sherlock rushed to finish what he had to say. "I know you don't want to hear it, but you're blaming yourself and that's wrong." He reached out and gripped John's wrist gently. "I was there when he quit. Withdrawal isn't nice or easy, and it makes people pour out whatever thoughts they have to the nearest person sometimes. He never stopped talking about you, wishing he could apologize."

"Why?" John twisted his hand so he could grip Sherlock's fingers, hard. "I left, and he…he did that because I left."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "He did it because he realised he drove you away. For people like us, cocaine makes the noise go away. Our minds are constantly going, never calm, and Jim's mind was only telling him how it was _his_ fault." He leaned in to press his forehead to John's. "He didn't shoot up to forget _you_, he did it to forget what he'd done."

John tried to keep the tears at bay, but they rolled down his face anyway. Sherlock hopped down from the table and hugged him tightly.

After he had cried himself dry, John stepped back and looked at Sherlock carefully, dressed in khaki trousers and a denim button-up. "You know," he said with a dry cough, trying to regain some pride, "you stick out like a glow-in-the-dark sore thumb here."

Sherlock smirked at him, glancing down at his clothes. "Care to help me, then?"

"Why is it always easier to say difficult things when it's dark?"

"Is this what the literature calls 'pillow talk'?" Sherlock replied tentatively.

John giggled, smacking the tall man in the bed next to him on the chest. "You git! Don't do that, we aren't actually sleeping together!"

"From a literal standpoint, I beg to differ." He could hear Sherlock smirking.

John smacked him again. "There isn't another bed, you get cranky when you sleep on the floor, and I'd die before I let you go to a hotel."

"Of course, John." He paused, letting the mirth trickle out of the moment. "What did you want to say that's so difficult?"

John sighed, settling his hand on Sherlock's chest. It calmed him to feel his friend's heartbeat under his palm. "I think I want to go back to England."

"To stay, or just to see Jim?" Sherlock asked evenly.

"I don't know," John admitted. "It…I don't know if I can forgive him yet." Sherlock tangled his fingers with John's, offering his silent support. "He said he loved me, but that never stopped him from trying to use me as a suicide bomber because he was having fun."

"Have you forgiven me?" John rolled his head to look at Sherlock, but the detective was staring at the ceiling. "I didn't know you were dating Jim Moriarty then. Good job on hiding that, by the way. I was just as obsessed with his puzzles as he was. I would have said anything to get you out of the flat so I could meet up with him."

"Sherlock-"

"No, listen to me." Sherlock squeezed his hand. "We both hurt you, but you've forgiven me. You'll forgive Jim too, because are just the kind of person we need."

"But I'm just ordinary!"

"John Watson, you are the furthest thing from ordinary I have ever known," Sherlock said seriously. "You never pitied or hated me, you tried to understand. Where Mycroft always wanted me to act normal, you just tried to help, and somehow, you always knew exactly what I needed. And you did the same for Jim, too."

John turned on his side to watch Sherlock. "Did he tell you about it? The ways I tried to help his fits?"

"He might have told me one story," Sherlock grinned, "about you holding him at gunpoint and then letting him deduce your scars. And Moran's."

John chuckled weakly. "That was a rough one. I never did ask what Mycroft did to him, but I know it was a big deal."

"Can you see how you are exactly what Jim needs?" Sherlock turned his head to meet John's eyes. "You keep us right, whether it's as Jim's lover or as the brother I'd always wished I had."

He squeezed his friend's hand again. "I'd rather have you than Harry. We can be brothers instead. Sod Mycroft." Sherlock's baritone laugh rumbled through their bed.

"What's up with His Nibs?" Sebastian asked, towelling his hair dry as he came into the kitchen.

John looked up from the pan of eggs on the cooker. "He's thinking. The cartel is good, and he's having trouble figuring out where they are."

"Huh." Sebastian tossed the towel back into his room. "Need a hint, Holmes?"

"No I do not need a _hint_, Moran," Sherlock grumbled, eyes still closed. "Shut up," he added a moment later.

Sebastian turned to John, eyebrow raised. John grinned. "You're thinking to loud."

Bastian shook his head and avoided John's threatening spatula as he filched a piece of bacon from the pan. "You have the patience of a saint, Johnny."

It was just as Rick was clearing the table that Sherlock opened his eyes. "I know where to go."

"Good," John drained the last of his coffee. "When do we leave?" Sherlock shot him a surprised glance. "Don't look like that, of course I'm going. Moran too, if you don't mind. We're the best shots you'll ever meet, after all."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned. "Ok then. Seven o'clock."

"Ground floor clear," Sebastian's voice murmured in his ear. John didn't bother replying as he tightened his grip on his Sig before leading Sherlock around another corner.

The room was empty.

"South offices clear," he said. "Proceeding to north offices."

"Meet you there," Sebastian replied.

The north office wing was the only place left to search in the warehouse. Sherlock was certain this was the headquarters of the cartel, and, while he refused any confirmation from Sebastian, the Colonel had assured John it was.

He nodded sharply to Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth tightened as he hefted the Browning John had lent him.

Bastian met them at the stair door, his own Army-issue Browning in his hand. He gave John one look and stepped back, letting him take the lead. John gave a quick count and slammed his boot into the door by the knob, splintering it as it smashed open.

And thanks to adrenaline rush, blood loss and a concussion, the rest of the evening was all a bit of a blur.

John groaned as he tried to pull himself out of unconsciousness. Gentle beeping and the sharp scent of disinfectant told him he'd ended up in hospital.

"John?" a worried Irish voice called gently. One of his hands was wrapped in two soft, slim ones. "John, can you hear me? C'mon, look at me."

John opened his mouth but only managed to croak, so he shut his mouth and tried to open his eyes instead. He squinted against the light until they adjusted.

"_John_," the Irish voice breathed. John turned his head to meet deep brown eyes framed by dark circles and thin brows.

"Hello, Jim," John rasped, squeezing the hands wrapped around his. "Did Sherlock call you?"

"Moran, actually." He raised a hand to smooth the shaggy blond hair out of John's eyes. "I was so worried."

"You know me," John joked weakly. "Takes more than one bullet to take me out."

"But you're up to three now," Jim replied, eyes burning. "Four might be your limit."

John hummed, closing his eyes and leaning into Jim's hand on the side of his face. "Just a graze."

"And a _concussion!_ Moran had to haul you out of the building when you passed out!"

"Jim, stop." He watched the Irishman visibly restrain his temper. "I'm fine." He raised his right hand to cup Jim's face, since his left stung like hell from the bullet graze across his bicep.

Jim pressed his lips to John's hand, eyes closed. "_I'm so sorry, John_," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"I missed you."

"You'll like what I did to your room," Jim said, all but dragging John up the stairs. John looked back at Sherlock, but the detective only smirked. No help there.

Maybe he shouldn't have been quite so accepting when Jim announced he was moving into Baker Street with them, but everyone seemed so keen on it, now that Jim was unofficially working for Mycroft to keep any unknown crime lords from gaining power. Unorthodox, but apparently the government thought it was a good idea. Sebastian and Rick were moving into the C flat downstairs, so at least they could all keep an eye on each other. Mrs Hudson was, of course, overjoyed to have more renters.

"Slow down, Jim!" John laughed. "I want to enjoy this, it's been nearly two years since I left."

Jim grinned and opened the door to 221B theatrically and waved John through.

Everything was in its place, miscellaneous skulls still where they were before. The windows had been fixed, but otherwise nothing had changed.

"You kept my chair," John noted, his voice thick.

Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. "Of course. No one could bear to sit in it, but I couldn't just throw it out, either." John looked up at him, thanks burning in his eyes.

"Ok, Jim, show me what you did to our room." He swore Jim's grin got even bigger when he referred to it as 'theirs.'

Jim covered his eyes as he opened the door and led him over to lay down on his back on the bed.

"Look," he whispered as he took his hand away.

John looked.

The ceiling had been painted like the night sky. Not just spots of light on a dark background, but like a perfect picture of the sky over Afghanistan, down to the smallest details. It was perfect.

"Jim," he breathed.

"Do you like it? You like it, right? I know you love the stars, but it's so hard to see them in London, and I don't want you to go anywhere else-"

John pulled Jim on top of him and kissed him hard to stop his babbling.

"Jim, I love it." He held the Irishman to his chest, staring up at the miles of stars he remembered so well. "And you."


End file.
